


take me back to places i feel loved in

by brampersandon



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 03:12:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12950055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/pseuds/brampersandon
Summary: They didn't always end up here after victories — celebration has a way of dropping barriers and bringing more people together — but defeats, Leo realizes, have always been uniquely theirs.He remembers Kiev, Natal, Berlin, Bordeaux, Doha. Cardiff. The way loss compounds, the way they take it out on each other in the moment, the way the way old wounds scar over and make them believe they can win it all if they just try again, again, again. Nonext timehangs over their heads now. If Milan has to be their final act, Leo intends to make it a cathartic one.





	take me back to places i feel loved in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [selenedaydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenedaydreams/gifts).



> for teo — i'm so grateful we got to know each other this year! thank you for being my friend, in times of salt and in times of joy. i have something much bigger in the works for you, but my job has been eating my life so for now please enjoy this misery. congratulations on everything you've accomplished this year and happy birthday!! ♥
> 
> title comes from _boston_ by dermot kennedy.

Leo doesn't remember much after the final whistle.

It comes to him in fragments: The swell of noise from the visiting Swedish fans as the minutes draw down. A patch of grass half-dislodged near his left foot that he can't stop staring at. Gigi's arm tight around his neck, fingers curled in the fabric of his jersey, ragged sobs against his ear. Some kid's face as he hands him his shirt. The echoes in San Siro's hallways. The shower water, scalding hot, and the vague realization he stepped in with his socks still on. 

Loss has a way of tunneling down his vision, sometimes blacks it out altogether. It's a weakness, he knows it, one of many Ferrarini's tried to wring out of him over the years with little success.

He closes his eyes. Breathes slowly. Focuses on the things he can control. 

The world is clearer when he reemerges with a towel wrapped around his waist— too clear, he finds almost immediately, too harsh. Gigi sits in front of his locker, already in his street clothes though his hair's still wet, his head bowed close to Lorenzo's. He's listening, nodding along to Lorenzo's soft chatter.

He can't change anything that happened, he realizes, but he can get a grip on what's happening right now.

Lorenzo sees him coming, extricates himself from the situation gently before Leo stops in front of Gigi and nudges his shin with a foot. "Hey." Gigi lifts his head to look at him, his eyes red-rimmed, then sits all the way up, still straight-backed and proud. Somehow, it cracks Leo's heart more than a defeated slump would. "Come on," he says. "Let's go."

Gigi stares at him, quietly evaluating, and Leo only raises his eyebrows. There's a benefit to being in Milan. 

His voice is scratchy and threadbare when he says, "Put on a shirt first," and a corner of his mouth lifts despite it all, and _fuck_ , Leo loves him.

 

 

 

 

"It's a nice house," Gigi says, because he's tactful enough not to say it's too large and empty. 

"Shut up," he mutters without malice. He drops his bag right there in the entryway, shrugs off his jacket and lets it fall on top of it. Gigi doesn't take the cue to do the same. One hand still rests against the shoulder strap of his own bag even when Leo crowds close and kisses him.

It takes longer than he'd like, but eventually Gigi's bag hits the ground too.

"Leo," he starts, both hands against his chest now, not pushing or pulling, not yet.

"Shut up." It's even weaker than before. He wraps his fingers around Gigi's wrists, gets him to drop his hands, smooths one palm over his cheek. "Let me—" It's frustrating, he's never been good at explaining anything with words and Gigi's never been good at giving himself over. 

He cups Gigi's face in both hands and holds his gaze. "Let me," he repeats.

Like always, Gigi understands him — and for once, he allows it. When he leans into Leo, he sighs, and it sounds a bit like relief.

 

 

 

 

They didn't always end up here after victories — celebration has a way of dropping barriers and bringing more people together — but defeats, Leo realizes, have always been uniquely theirs.

He remembers Kiev, Natal, Berlin, Bordeaux, Doha. Cardiff. The way loss compounds, the way they take it out on each other in the moment, the way the way old wounds scar over and make them believe they can win it all if they just try again, again, again. No _next time_ hangs over their heads now. If Milan has to be their final act, Leo intends to make it a cathartic one.

Leo leads him back to his room, strips him down with a reverence and drops to his knees. He lets Gigi guide his mouth open and push him forward, too gentle for what Leo really wants — but that isn't what this is about. When he eventually pulls off, he keeps his hand wrapped firm around the base, briefly presses his face against the flat of Gigi's stomach before looking up at him. It hangs unspoken between them, the agreement to let Gigi decide what he wants, to let Leo give him anything. It's how he winds up straddling Gigi on the bed, opening himself up while Gigi strokes him agonizingly slow. 

His thighs still burn from the match as he sinks down onto Gigi, but it's fine, it's _good_. It's worth it when he's full and Gigi's staring up at him, wonderstruck like it's the first time again, blissed out like they aren't here because a chapter just ended.

It's like that, languid and breathless, until Gigi decides it isn't anymore. He tugs Leo down to rest on his forearms, grips his hips firm enough to keep control over his motions and fucks up into him, harder when Leo asks for it. His mouth is open and desperate against Gigi's. " _Capitano_ ," he whispers once, then again when it draws a ragged moan out of Gigi, then again and again and again until Gigi kisses him to shut him up and wraps a hand around Leo's cock sliding against his belly.

" _Mio Leo_ ," Gigi murmurs when he breaks off with a gasp, and that's all it takes for him to unravel. His vision is too bright. He thinks his face might be damp. He can pretend it's sweat.

He doesn't want it to end, doesn't want this all to be over— but he _does_ want Gigi to let go of the last bit of control he's been hanging onto. He steadies himself on his shaking arms, regains a little leverage and rolls his hips in a way he knows rips an obscene moan out of Gigi. Leo feels like a blown fuse, every nerve in his body overworked and over-sensitive. He's exhausted and sore and he'd absolutely do anything Gigi asked, if only he were selfish enough to put words to what he wants.

But Leo knows. He's always known. He keeps pace with Gigi until it gets erratic, until Gigi buries deep in him and chokes on his name, until they're both boneless against one another.

In that hazy time before they can gather the strength to get cleaned up, they always forget the circumstances that led them here. It's nice, Leo thinks, Gigi's mouth soft against his, his tired sighs trapped between them.

Of course, inevitably it sneaks back in as their bodies settle in for sleep. Of course, neither of them mention it. Gigi keeps one hand cupped against Leo's head where it rests on his chest, fingers worrying back and forth across the fuzz above his ear. Leo holds his waist as tightly as a scared child holds a teddy bear. _I know_ , their bodies both say for them, _I know what you're feeling, I'm feeling it too_.

 

 

 

 

The morning is gray and misty even at sunrise. Leo stands barefoot at the sliding glass door overlooking his backyard, watches the weak rays of light try to pierce through the cloud cover. It's a good day to stay in bed — something he's never been able to do, not even on his worst days, but it's a nice thought.

It's there, coffee in hand and fiddling with his phone, that he sees the interview Gigi gave after the match. Every bit of it scrubs raw an open wound, and Leo's just about to back out of the video when he hears it, _al mio Leo_ , and he's paralyzed.

It's so like Gigi, taking time out of his lowest moment to turn the focus outward, to extend gratitude. If he ever thought about not qualifying — and he did, they all did — he must have thought about it in terms of everyone else. Leo wonders, not for the first time, if Gigi ever bothered to consider himself. If he has even now. Not what it means for the team, or for Italians, but what it means for him.

The video ends. He tips his chin up to stare at the ceiling. Back in his bedroom, somewhere above him, Gigi stays asleep.

 

 

 

 

For lack of anything better to do, he texts Claudio: _If you announce your retirement too, I'll kick your ass_.

In hindsight — and Christ, Leo hates hindsight — it was probably foolish to bank on one more year with Andrea and Giorgio. He probably shouldn't feel as disappointed and bitter and stupid as he does. It's probably karma. Probably. Leo's not sure he believes in that. Still, to tear away from their partnership and tell himself that at least they'd still have one last shot to defend their country together — maybe he brought this rotten luck on himself.

It's not that he regrets leaving Juventus, but hell if he doesn't feel a posthumous twinge of it now.

His phone lights up where it lays on the kitchen counter. 

_No_ , Claudio writes back, _I'll be right by you at Wembley_.

Fondness floods his chest and he doesn't try to suppress his smile. Neither of them are young anymore, but they've got at least a couple more years left in their legs. Maybe more.

He's in the middle of trying to figure out a good response when another message comes through.

 _Tell Gigi hi for me_.

It's nearly noon and still no sign of life from the bedroom. Leo pockets his phone, rolls his shoulders back. He has to leave eventually. All they have are a few days off before resuming training, and then— nothing. One night when Milan travel to Turin, and that's it. 

Something's ended, loath as Leo is to admit it, and until they acknowledge it, the uncertainty will keep festering.

 

 

 

 

Slats of dim light fall over the rumpled bed where the window blinds are half-open. Aside from that, the room is dark and still. Leo pauses in the doorway, waits to see if anything stirs him, then slowly pads over to the bed when it doesn't.

"I'm awake," the pile of blankets protests when he settles on the edge of the bed and rests his hand on it. Leo snorts a little, and it turns into a muffled laugh when Gigi's head emerges, hair tousled and eyes tired. "Really. I'm up."

Leo reaches out to pinch his nose. "Lazy." He doesn't mean it at all. If anyone has earned their rest, it's Gigi.

Gigi extricates his upper body from the bedding cocoon, but it's a trap that only exists to grab Leo and drag him down into it. He doesn't even try to fight it, just goes limp and lets Gigi throw the comforter over him, curve an arm over his back. 

"You've been up all day," Gigi observes, a little guilty.

"Couldn't sleep. Got maybe four hours?" And he's tightly wound at the best of times, but Gigi smoothing a palm up and down his back could lull him to sleep right there. They could stay this way forever. It's tempting, like slipping under warm bathwater, like teetering at the precipice. Leo finds himself curling in closer, nudging his face against Gigi's bare chest and breathing deep. "I can't believe you retired," he says, the words coming out before he can think about them.

Gigi's words rumble in his chest, vibrating against Leo's cheek. "Neither can I."

And he shouldn't ask, because there's no good answer, but Leo's never known sense in his life, so— "What's next?"

"What's next," Gigi echoes contemplatively. "I go back. I end things as well as I can. I take the del Piero victory lap." Leo pulls his head back to confirm that last one is a joke, and Gigi's raised eyebrows tell him it is.

He looks Gigi in the eye, unblinking, when he asks, "Then what?"

"Then I sleep through the World Cup."

Leo falters for a moment on the edge of going where they've never gone outright. _Fuck it_ , he thinks— he's already embarrassed himself in front of the world in the past twenty-four hours, he might as well do it in front of the only part of it that matters to him. "Then what about us," he says, and it isn't a question, not really.

Gigi blinks at him, catches his fingers against the knobs of Leo's spine. 

And then, for the first time since the whistle blew, Leo watches Gigi's eyes crease as he smiles.

"It's a nice house," he says. He even sounds like he means it this time. "It could use some company, though. And I'll need a quiet place to study for my license."

All in a flash, Leo pulls him close, shoves him off, crawls on top of him, laughs against his neck and fists his hands in his hair. "It's not your bed and breakfast." It could be. He doesn't want to sound desperate. He knows he still does.

Gigi doesn't argue him on it, just wraps both arms around him and keeps him close. It's a plan. Sort of. It's something. Something more than they had before. Beneath him, Gigi mumbles _I do want breakfast though_ , and Leo's so stupidly pleased, he'll take it.

 

 

 

 

He convinces Gigi to stay one more night— bribes him, really, with promises of carbonara and a box of cigars Pirlo sent him last Christmas. They sit on the back porch after sundown, smoke curling in the scant space between them. Leo's free hand rests against the nape of Gigi's neck, thumb moving in soothing circles when he admits, "I don't feel any better."

Gigi looks sideways at him as he exhales. "I don't either. I don't expect to for a while." He shrugs, his eyes alight despite his words. "I think that's alright. Don't you? If we got over it so easily, that would mean it wasn't important to us."

He's right. Of course he is. Leo tugs the short hairs at the back of his head. When Gigi closes his eyes and lets the motion tip his head back, Leo leans in and presses a kiss against the column of his throat. He hates the idea of not being in Russia, but he imagines getting to do _this_ instead, and it's a fraction less unbearable.

Gigi hums. He thinks he hears him murmur _mio Leo_ again, but then Gigi sits upright and captures his lips, tasting of smoke and wine and all illicit things, and Leo can't hear anything but his own blood in his ears.

**Author's Note:**

> \- [here](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com/post/167482562179/daily-football-buffons-emotional-post-match) is gigi's final interview, and yes, he did indeed say "al mio chiello, al mio barza, al mio leo," because he wants me to suffer personally.
> 
> \- shout out to euro 2020 for not having a true host nation, but! the final will be at wembley, so at least there's that. claudio is a romantic who's far more hopeful about the future of azzurri than i am (and that's why he should be their new captain, amen).
> 
> \- [i love dying and being dead](http://sportsmancrush.tumblr.com/post/167464817527)
> 
> \- thank you for reading!! ♥ come be sad about the untimely end of the bbbc with me [on tumblr](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com) any time.


End file.
